What Should Have Been
by M. Hikaru
Summary: Night after night, an apathetic Subaru goes to the shinjuku district seeking men who resemble Seishirou... and consequently realizes one and only flaw of the previous Sakurazuka-mori. (FxSu, Post X-16, One-shot)


---------------------

Warnings: post-X16, dark, DISTURBING :3

Pairing: Fuuma x Subaru

Genre: One-shot

---------------------

"What Should Have Been" or "atari mae na koto"   


---------------------  
  
  
This wasn't the first time he was here.   
  
Skirting the edges of the dusty spotlight of street lamps, he trudged down the alleyway. His steps were soft, inaudible, as he slowly and deliberately stepped over shards of beer bottles glimmering in the sparse light, glowing like fragments of flawed amber. The man didn't stop to look at his feet.   
  
He moved out of the alleyway and turned left onto a larger street. The lamps were brighter here, heightened by the sporadically blinking neon signs that dotted the walls. Here, the man stopped, his profile stark. There were many more like him here, waiting as he was. Yet, he cannot say that they are completely like him.   
  
No, he was not lost as they were. He was waiting for a specific person.   
  
A few drunk men staggered in his direction, kicking up noise and laughter. One of them stops and drapes a heavy arm across his shoulders. The drunk's breath is warm and reeks of beer against his neck. A hand, heavied by the influence of alcohol, drags across his stomach. In the past he would have been terrified or at least flinched, but now there is nothing. The drunkard could have been running his hands against marble.   
  
"How much, baby?" the man's lips are moist against his ear.   
  
He holds up his hand, thin pale fingers splayed.   
  
"Five hundred? Or five thousand?" the drunk slurs, then chortles at his own cleverness.   
  
"Fifty thousand yen." It was the first time he spoke tonight, and once again, he marvels at how smooth his voice flows, how little intonation his voice carries, how dead he sounds.   
  
The laughing stops.   
  
"Who the fuck do you think you are--?!" the drunk grabs his wrists and pins them heavily above his head; the man cusses into his neck, pulls at the hem of his pants.   
  
He doesn't react.   
  
There is someone watching this scene. Another man, a tall figure carved out of shadow. This man has been watching him for some time --a man not afraid to catch his unnatural mismatched eyes. He gives this silent watcher a small smile.   
  
He calls on the power then, pulling on the strands of his legacy, and projects. Sakura rustles in the distance, and the drunkard on him groans and falls at his feet. He wouldn't feed this one to the tree --it was unworthy.   
  
He took slow deliberate over the body and slowly approached the man. He stopped. The two of them stood infront of another in the stark profile of streetlamps. The man reached into his pockets, took out a box of cigarettes and stuck one into his mouth.   
  
Automatically, he took out his lighter and lit it. A soft glow of illumination appeared between them; ghostly tendrils of smoke surrounded them.   
  
This is how it should have been.   
  
This is right.   
  
There was no need for words. The two of them left together and disappeared out of the spotlight of the rusting lamps.   
  
* * *   
  
The hotel room was like any other.   
  
It smelled faintly of mildew, soap, and old sex. Headlights of passing cars danced like fireflies behind the moth-eaten curtain. The two of them entered the stale room, closed the door, and fell towards the bed.   
  
It was always like this. He was once again here in a room which looked like every other; he was once again with a man who resembled _him_. If he looked closely at his partner, he could see in the sparse light that the hair was a bit longer than it should be, the eyes were filled with more emotion than it should show, the contours of the mouth was wrong. But the hotel room was dark, and he was more than willing to pretend.   
  
Each piece of clothing was shred from his body with care. The sheets were rough against his back, but neither he nor his partner voiced any complaint. He managed to pull off the suit jacket off the other man, and slowly moved his lips along the skin exposed with every button he undid. He was speaking --his lips formed words but no sound.   
  
A chuckle rumbled against his mouth. "Eager, aren't you?"   
  
They move together, breaths hot in the stagnant air. The air conditioner whirrs and clanks, masking their gasps and groans. A car speeds by outside, its headlights briefly cutting through the drawn curtains and lights up the room. He throws his head back, his unnatural eyes half lidded and glittering. His partner tenses against him, then relaxes with a sigh.   
  
The light disappears. The room is once against stale and dark.   
  
He sits up then as does the other man. They meet each others' eyes and stare into each other silluettes. Then he lifts one hand, and carefully, traces the contours of the man's face.   
  
He moves.   
  
His hand lifts. His fingers press together. His power flows through his palm.   
  
He strikes.   
  
Another car drives by, this time blaring its horn. It's siren mutes the cracks of bone, the rendering of flesh, and the choked rattling breath. The car passes, and the room is silent once more.   
  
He pulls his hand free of the body. He moves off the stained bed and dresses. The sakura rustles inquisitively in his mind. Yes, he tells it, yes I'll feed you this one.   
  
He stands to turn on the light, but before he can, the door opens. A tunnel of yellow floods the room. He feels blind and realizes it's natural --he was a creature of darkness.   
  
A shadow stands at the door, brilliant and god-like in contrast. It surveys the room: himself and the corpse. Then the door closes. There are spots dancing before his eyes.   
  
"What have you been up to... 'Subaru-kun'?"   
  
Mismatched eyes widen.   
  
A warm body presses against his own. A strong hand runs along the length of his spine. He feels himself arch, he feels himself gasp.   
  
This has never happened before.   
  
The figure guides him onto the bed with teasing touches. He feels his coat soak with blood beneath him. He doesn't care. He cannot see who it is, but he knows that amused lilt of voice, those rough yet gentle hands. There are still white spots in his vision, but he doesn't mind. He's speaking again. He speaks in that same voice without sound.   
  
But this man knows what he's saying --who he's calling for.   
  
_--seishirousanseishirousanseishirousan--_   
  
"I'm here, 'Subaru-kun'."   
  
He gives a small cry, wraps his arms around that figure's shoulders and grasps it until he can feel skin breaking beneath his fingernails. He closes his eyes --there's no longer any need for vision.   
  
_--seishirousanseishirousanseishirousan--_   
  
They melt into one another until the pain is the only way to know that they haven't become one. Then, as tides ebb, they flow apart. They lay there in the darkness and air filled with the smell of copper.   
  
He lays there, mismatched eyes glazed, a familiar warmth pressing onto him. He drowsily surveys the room. He meets the cold dead eyes of the corpse --a random man who seemed to be a carbon copy of _him_ in the lamplight. A random who, in death, no longer looked anything like Sakurazuka Seishirou.   
  
Memories flood within him.   
  
Before he can understand what is happening, his hand is raising, drawing back taunt like an arrow on a bow. Power is fueling into him, and he strikes, his hand aimed straight for that figure's heart.   
  
_--seishirousanseishirousanseishirousan--_   
  
Impact.   
  
But not one he's expecting.   
  
His hand is burning within the other's grasp; his fingertips twitch against the other's unbroken skin.   
  
_YES._   
  
He's crying. Tears are running from his face, mingling with the blood and leaving trails of dark lines down his face and body --as if he's being cut up into seperate pieces.   
  
_Yes, this is the way it's supposed to be. This is the way that Seishirou should be._   
  
An arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close although the hand that grasps his own doesn't loosen. "Is this what you wish, 'Subaru-kun'?" the voice is amused, taunting, infuriating.   
  
_This is the way the Seishirou should have been: invincible._   
  
A car drives by outside, the headlights stopping to flood the room's darkness.   
  
It takes a while for his vision to focus, for the man ontop him to fall into sharp contrast. The face, he realizes suddenly, is not whom he expects it to be. The man's hair is cropped too short, the eyes are darker than it should be, but the mouth... ah the mouth was perfect in its amusement. The only man who could ever come close to being _him_: the Dragon of Earth's Kamui.   
  
  
The two do not move. They do not need to. An inaudible question is asked and he answers as he always has --in a silent voice which the other understands.   
  
The car pulls up into a stall outside, the engine stops, keys jangle, and the headlights turn off with a click.

---------------------

Author's notes: All this stems from one image of Subaru waiting under a street lamp... how I got here, I'm not quite sure. -.-;

  


---------------------


End file.
